The Trouble With Sherlock
by StealthStar
Summary: The adventures of Sherlock and Watson get a new perspective when the famous detective shrinks his unfortunate partner-in-crime. Watson faces all new challenges as he solves mysteries with Sherlock, all the while searching for a way back.
1. Chapter 1

It was night at 221B Baker Street. Outside the streetlamps had been lit for a good amount of hours, and even I was beginning to get tired. On my way to my room I looked in on Sherlock's. To no surprise of mine, he was still wide awake, fiddling with some new science project of his.

"I'm going to bed," I enlightened him. He hardly even looked up from his (admittedly confusing) work.

"Yes, goodnight Watson," he muttered in reply, carefully measuring out some sort of powder. I left him to it, whatever it was, and retired to my bedroom. Perhaps in the morning he would be done and I could ask him what it was. I knew he wouldn't sleep, and would hardly talk, until he was finished. It was just how he worked.

I woke up earlier than I had expected, as my eyes still felt heavy with sleep. As I became more aware, it came to my attention that the ground underneath me was rather hard. For some reason, I wasn't in my bed anymore. Slowly I opened my eyes, only to see the familiar ceiling of our apartment far above me. So where...?

I sat up, and immediately stiffened with surprise. Around me various scientific instruments lay, though they were of an impossible size. In other words, I seemed to be sitting on Sherlock's lab table; though, if those beakers were of the size he normally used, I couldn't have been more than six inches tall.

A dream, I decided. A rather unusual dream brought on by the stresses of constantly getting dragged into Sherlock's messes and mysteries. Nothing more. Still a bit unnerved by the entire concept, I shut my eyes and attempted to fall back into a dreamless sleep.

"My, you are adorable," said a loud, yet familiar voice from in front of me. My eyes flew open, and with a yell I scrambled back from the sight in front of me. It was Sherlock, except he appeared to have grown to the same scale as the scientific equipment around me. His enormous face was looking at me with what appeared to be wry amusement.

"I didn't expect it to actually work," he mused, quieter this time. Strange, this felt unusually real for a dream. I could feel my heart palpitating anxiously against my chest, and everything looked realistically clear. It was unlike any dream I had ever had, and I was beginning to fear that it wasn't a dream after all. With Sherlock Holmes as a roommate, anything was possible.

"Sherlock?" I asked hesitantly, not bothering to stand up. It wouldn't have made a difference anyways.

The larger-than-normal Sherlock smiled exuberantly. "Amazing! I take it you have all of your usual facilities in place then, Watson?"

"I suppose… for a dream," I replied carefully, trying to gauge his reaction for its realism.

Sherlock frowned. "Dream? No, I assure you my dear Watson, what you are experiencing is entirely real." I swallowed nervously, attempting to make sense of this new proposition. So where was I, then? I was little more than five inches tall, stuck on Sherlock's lab table, in my sleeping attire. Sherlock, however, didn't seem surprised by this situation at all…

"Sherlock," I said coldly, looking up at him. "How exactly did this happen?"

He looked slightly surprised at this question. "Why, by me of course!" He smiled, and my heart fell as I realized my suspicions were correct. "Do you know of any other scientific mind that could achieve something such as this?"

I stood up, feeling only frustration with his innocent assertion. "So you shrunk me," I exclaimed, my voice rising with emotion, "in my sleep, without my knowledge?!"

Sherlock's eyes were shining with excitement, and it was with a heavy heart that I labeled this argument a lost cause. "For science, Watson, for science!" he hastily explained. "Can you imagine what we have done here? What it will lead to?"

I sighed, and said, "No, at the moment I can't imagine it. This may have something to do with the fact that I am standing on you lab table no taller than a child's toy! What did I say about your experiments? You didn't even ask me, Sherlock!"

My friend looked at me without emotion, seemingly unmoved by my long string of angry complaints. "But if I had asked you, you would have said no," he said softly.

"Yes I would have, because this is just crazy!" I yelled. Unfortunately, at my new stature I didn't seem to have much of an impact with my anger. It's rather hard to be intimidating when you're the size of someone's finger.

Sherlock beamed and, without warning, picked me up between his thumb and forefinger. "You are just too cute when you're angry," he said teasingly, holding me up at eye level.

I crossed my arms and glared at him, becoming increasingly aware of the disadvantages of this new situation. "Put me down," I demanded through gritted teeth. He smiled and set me back down on the table.

"Are you starting to feel better?" he asked, a smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth.

"No," I sad bluntly. With determination I added, "I demand that you give me the antidote. I have things to do tomorrow, I need to get back to normal." Sherlock stood there silently, looking at me with a strange expression. "Sherlock, change me back. Now!" I said, beginning to panic.

He shook his head slightly. "I haven't thought of an antidote. In fact, that idea hadn't even occurred to me until you mentioned it."

I sat down, stunned, and looked up at him beseechingly. "You're a genius," I said, upset. "How could you not have thought of a way back?"

He shrugged. "I get involved with my work, you know that. By becoming focused on creating the substance itself, I failed to look ahead. A simple mistake, really."

"Simple," I breathed, closing my eyes. I couldn't believe Sherlock had done this to me. This was really too much, even considering everything we had gone through together. "There has to be a way…" I said, opening my eyes again. He had fallen asleep in his chair, and I had absolutely no chance of waking him up. "Wonderful," I muttered to myself, sitting down and staring at him. "Sherlock, we had better find a way out of this mess…"


	2. Chapter 2

I woke up again late in the morning, but to no surprise Sherlock was still asleep. Sighing, I sat up and tried to work out the stiffness that had set in from spending the night on a wooden desk. Unsurprisingly, within mere minutes of my awakening my stomach growled. I was hungry, but of course there was no way could get to the kitchen, or to food for that matter, on my own. Which meant I had to find a way to wake up Sherlock.

Standing up, I pondered the distance from the edge of the table to Sherlock's still form. It didn't seem like that far to jump, but just to be safe I backed up a bit and took a running start. I landed with a light thump on Sherlock's chest and, scrambling for a hold, grabbed onto his shirt collar. Even with this action he didn't wake up, and I could feel the even rhythm of his breathing as his chest rose and fell underneath me.

"Sherlock, I'm going to kill you for this," I muttered crossly under my breath as I climbed my way up to his shoulder. "Sherlock," I said into his ear, standing unsteadily next to his head. He didn't reply, so I tried again. "Sherlock!" I shouted into his eardrum, as loud as I could manage. He reacted with a start, causing me to lose my balance, and I would have tumbled over if I hadn't clutched a lock of his hair.

He yawned widely and stretched, causing me to hold on tighter so as to not fall over. After a moment he seemed to feel my presence, and plucked me off of his shoulder with an easy motion. "Good morning, Watson," he said to me, a sleepy sort of smile on his face. "That was rather creative of you to wake me up. Do you need something?"

I looked up at him, wondering how he could possibly be so casual. All I could manage was irritation. "Yes, I'm hungry," I said plainly, assuming he would understand the implications.

He did, of course. 'Yes, a spot of breakfast would be nice," he agreed, and while still holding me in one hand he stood up. Without thinking I clutched one of his fingers for support, and they curled up rather protectively around me. The simple motion of his walking felt like a ship rocking through a storm; that was about the only experience I could relate my current situation to, understandably.

We approached the kitchen, and with a surprisingly gentle motion Sherlock set me on the table. I had always found our kitchen table to be on the small side, but funnily enough it seemed rather large now. I looked around with interest (and, it must be mentioned, a healthy measure of fear) as Sherlock put together breakfast. Despite my apprehensions, this new point of view was interesting, Our familiar apartment seemed to have taken on new dimensions overnight.

"Here we go," said Sherlock, returning to the table with a plate of toasted bread. Carefully, he tore off a small piece and handed it to me.

Needless to say, I had to hold it with both hands, and with only a bit of difficulty I managed to take a bite. Though the situation was still rather unusual, the warm bread was a welcome relief. I noticed that Sherlock's eyes often lingered on me as I ate, most likely observing the unusual phenomena. If it helped him find a way to reverse it, I didn't mind at all.

"Someone's coming up the stairs," said Sherlock, suddenly but with certainty. I froze, unsure of what to do. I remained indecisive until I heard the door click open, at which point I dashed behind the jam pot on the table, my heart thumping wildly.

"Mr. Holmes sir, there's a visitor here to see you," came the familiar voice of our landlady. I held my breath, hoping she would not approach closer.

"Show them up, if you would be so kind," Sherlock replied, as suave as ever. She agreed, and soon enough I heard the door close once more. "You can come out now," Sherlock said teasingly, removing the jam pot and causing me to fall backwards.

Lying on my back still, I looked up at him and asked, "We're having visitors? Now?" It seemed like an awful time to have company over.

Sherlock smiled, but I couldn't decipher it's meaning. "Yes, which means we have to find you a place to stay hidden while they are here." He picked me up again and took me into the living room, where he set me atop the mantle above the fireplace. "There," he said as I struggled to get my bearings, "a perfect view of the room."

There was then a knock on the door, and as Sherlock went to answer it I hid behind a leafy potted plant. He was right, even behind the plant I would have a great view of any going-ons in the living room. Even better, I was perfectly concealed from, any guests. There was absolutely no way I was disclosing my current problem to others. I may have lost my height, but I still had my dignity.

The door opened, and a shy young woman walked into our living room. She was dressed rather plainly, with only a shawl and bonnet to complement her dress. Still, it seemed rather cold to have such little protection form the chill. Though her hair was pulled back, I could see it was of a light brown color. Her face was young, but struck with tragedy (one which I assumed we were about to hear).

Then another woman walked in behind her, and I had to suppress a groan. What was Mary doing here? I couldn't let her see me like this; our relationship had barely just begun. I had no idea how she would react to this. For a brilliant detective, Sherlock really was an idiot.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" the young woman asked in a quavering voice, staring beseechingly at Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded and, retreating to his own chair himself, said, "Please, take a seat."

She did so, and Mary took a seat beside her. I could see Mary's eyes glance towards my usual chair, no doubt wondering where I was. Luckily she didn't ask, and instead turned to Sherlock with an explanation. "This is Miss Hannah Struthers," Mary introduced the young woman, holding her hand in support. "She needed help, so I recommended you."

Sherlock now had his pensive expression on, familiar yet unreadable. "Of course," he said quietly in reply. "Please, Miss Struthers, what is your predicament?"

Miss Struthers swallowed nervously and, with a supporting smile from Mary, started her story. "A few nights ago, a man tried to rob me. He broke into the house, but when I came down he ran off. As far as I can tell he didn't take anything, but I've been worried ever since."

"I assume you saw this man's face when you encountered him," said Sherlock thoughtfully. She nodded, and he continued, "Then this seems like a rather simple matter for the Yard. Why come to me?"

Miss Struthers looked at him, and I could see the emotion in her eyes. "With all due respect, Mr. Holmes, Scotland Yard cannot help me. The man who broke into my house has been dead for almost ten years now.

"Thomas Jameson was a friend of my father's. They went to war together, before I was born, and returned as fast friends. When my father married my mother and settled down, Thomas went adventuring in search of his fortune. When I was fourteen I met him for the first time. He had returned to London after a long foreign trip, and was eager to tell my father of his discoveries.

"According to what Father told me afterwards, Thomas was a rather eccentric man, He told Father that there was a fortune to be made in America, if only he and my father could travel there for a year. Eventually he got Mother to agree, and they left us for an entire year, or almost. Father returned earlier than expected, bringing news that Thomas had died in America. I never could get Father to describe how Thomas died, as after he returned my dear father refused to speak of his good friend. It was as if they had had a falling-out before he died, and Father couldn't help but be angered with him still.

"Well, a few nights ago was ten years after that, almost to the day. My parents are currently on holiday in France, so I was the only one at the house. I was awakened by a noise, and when I went down the stairs I saw there was a light in the kitchen. Of course I never leave lights going, so I hesitantly peered into the room. There was a man standing there, opening and closing the doors to the pantry and the other cupboards. He turned and saw me there and dashed out the back door, but not before I got a good solid look at his face. It was Thomas Jameson all right, perhaps a bit different than my memory serves, but him all the same. He always did have a peculiar shape to his face, one feature that I never forgot. And I can assure you, Mr. Holmes, I am very food with faces."

When Miss Struthers finished Sherlock had the same thoughtful expression as always, though I could tell he was intrigued. As soon as a mysterious death was mentioned, I could see he was completely involved. Unfortunately, this didn't seem the best time to take a case.

"Miss Struthers, I apologize for your fright, but from what I have heard I can assure you that there is no immediate danger," Sherlock said. The young woman sighed with relief, and Sherlock added, "I would be delighted to aid you in solving this very peculiar case." He said this with a smile and I had to refrain from swearing, unable to believe that Sherlock would continue to put me through such pains. We should be focusing on an antidote, not some case!

The young woman, however, was shining with gratitude. "Oh, I cannot thank you enough Mr. Holmes!" she said in delight, standing up and taking his hand in hers. "You do not know how relieved this makes me."

"I will come by your house tomorrow," said Sherlock. "Shall I call at eleven?"

Miss Struthers nodded and, with a few more pleasantries aside, exited through the door. Mary stayed behind, and once her friend was gone turned to Sherlock and asked, "Where's John? Doesn't he usually stay with you when a client comes?"

"Yes, he's here," Sherlock replied, with a teasing smile in my direction. I sank further into the leaves, desperately hoping he wasn't about to do what I thought he was. "You can come out now, Watson, it's only Mary," he said, despite my anxious looks in his direction.

Mary turned towards the hallway leading to our bedrooms, and I hoped she wouldn't take a surprise like this the wrong way. Hesitantly, I stepped out from behind the plant, walking to the front and center of the mantle. "I'm over here, Mary," I called to her, bracing myself for her reaction.

She immediately turned in my direction, her eyes searching for the source of my voice. When she spotted me, all that I could see on her face was shock. "John!" she exclaimed, flying over to the mantle. Putting her hands on either side of me, she began a thorough perusal of every inch of my body. "What…how did you get so small?" she asked incredulously.

I frowned, and pointed an accusing finger in Sherlock's direction. "You have him to thank," I enlightened her.

Mary looked over at Sherlock, who simply smiled and shrugged. "Guilty as charged, he calmly replied. To my surprise, this caused Mary to break into a brilliant smile.

"He's so adorable!" she exclaimed.

Sherlock smiled. "Isn't he, though?"

"Mary!" I complained, aghast that she was siding with him. "Don't encourage him!"

She turned back to me apologetically, but couldn't keep a smile off her face. "I'm sorry, John, but you really are just too cute this way!"

I frowned. "I don't want to be cute, Mary, I want to be normal. And the genius over there wants to take a case before finding a way for me to return to normal," I explained, glaring at Sherlock for good measure.

Sherlock chuckled, seemingly unaffected by my frustration. "Come now, Watson, you wouldn't be so selfish as to put your comfort above that young lady's, now would you?" he asked. I flushed, knowing full well I couldn't come up with a good response. "Besides, what could be the harm in staying that size for just a little while?"

I could think of all sorts of harm that could come from it, but didn't bother arguing the point. There was no way I could possibly win, not with Sherlock's mind set as it was now.

"Yes, John, I think it would be fine to stay this size," said Mary. No doubt about it, she was now thoroughly in league with Sherlock, damn his curiosity. I could see that she was just barely suppressing the urge to coddle me, a reaction I wanted to avoid if at all possible.

Sighing, I surrendered myself to their wishes. "Fine, but just one case. Then we find an antidote."

"Upon my honor, my dear Watson," Sherlock replied with a smug smile. "Until then, I have a few errands to run. Mary, would you be so kind as to look after him for me?"

Mary smiled. "I have an engagement at noon, but until then I would be delighted!" I as on the verge of protesting that I didn't need looking-after, when I realized that I couldn't get down from the mantle on my own. This new state made life so much more complicated; even the simplest of tasks was turned into a challenge.

"Wonderful," said Sherlock in response to Mary, throwing on his coat. "I shall return this afternoon." And with that he left, closing the door securely behind him.

"Come, John," she said cheerfully, scooping me up in her delicate fingers. She looked down at me in wonder, and I could tell she was still attempting to convince herself that this was real. For that matter, so was I. "Let's go into the kitchen," she said, carrying me in there and setting me on the table.

For the next few hours we played board games together, like chess and backgammon. I still managed to win, even thought I had to stand on the board and move the unwieldy pieces with both hands. It was enjoyable; I had ceased to play board games with Sherlock, as his strategic mind beat my average intellect every time. At least with Mary I had an even chance.

Eventually noon came about, and as Sherlock wasn't home yet Mary had to leave me alone. "You sure you'll be all right by yourself?" she asked, fretting. "You have enough food and everything in case Sherlock doesn't come back for a while?"

"Yes, Mary, I'm fine," I said tiredly. She had fixed me enough food for me to last a month, and besides I was used to staying at the flat on my own. Changing sizes hadn't affected my bachelor living abilities.

"All right… then I suppose I should go…" she said, inching away towards the door.

With a sigh I walked to the edge of the table, shooing her away. "Go, Mary. I'll be fine, I promise." She finally left, and I was alone on the kitchen table.

By the time Sherlock returned it was already getting dark, and I was practically asleep from boredom. Usually when I was alone I would read, but being stuck on the table without reading material of any kind made for a boring few hours. For the first time since he had done this to me, I was glad to see my roommate.

"I bought you some new clothes," said Sherlock, setting a bag next to me on the table and fixing himself dinner.

My interest piqued, I went and started digging into the bag. I soon pulled out a complete set of clothing, socks, handkerchief, and all. As far as I could tell there were about five new outfits all told, every one of them in my new size. "Where did you find these?" I asked him, admiring the intricate detail of clothing so miniature.

"A specialty doll maker's," he replied, returning to the table with a plate of food. "I thought if we were going to be on a case tomorrow, you couldn't very well go in your nightclothes."

Oh, so now he started thinking ahead… Suddenly, the entirety of what he had said sunk in. "Wait, you mean I'm coming with you on the case tomorrow?" I asked, unsure of whether I wanted to go along or not.

"Of course you're coming, Watson," said Sherlock plainly. "I rely on you. Besides, you may come in handy."

Yes, a whole lot of help I was going to be in my current state. He just wanted an excuse to carry around his little science project for a day, whether or not I wanted to. Still, going out in public like this made me nervous. "By the way, I told the land lady you were on a trip in Italy. As far as everyone else is concerned, you're abroad," said Sherlock.

Foreign travel? Exactly how long was he expecting this to last? "Fine, whatever works," I said resignedly. We supped together quietly, each of us involved in our own thoughts. I yawned, feeling tired despite my earlier attempts at napping on the table.

"Tired, Watson?" Sherlock asked. I nodded, and he replied, "Then we shall go to bed." Standing, he picked me up off the table. I was too exhausted to offer any resistance, or even complaint. Silencing the lights as he went, Sherlock moved towards our bedrooms; however, instead of dropping me off in my room and moving onto his own, he took me into his room.

"What are we doing in here?" I asked. With surprising gentleness he deposited me on the bed, and I found myself resting on the pillow next to his.

"Well, it wouldn't be practical for you to sleep in your own bed," Sherlock replied, rummaging for something in his dresser. He soon returned, handing me a large silk handkerchief to use as a blanket. "This way, you can wake me up if any reason for that comes about." As always, he was right, and I reluctantly lay back on the pillow.

Pulling the makeshift blanket up to my chin, I felt Sherlock get into the bed next to me, his much larger form obscured by the raised edges of the pillow. Sighing, I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.

And so the first day of my trouble with Sherlock came to an end.


	3. Chapter 3

I woke up in the morning feeling stifled and hot. Raising my head a bit, I saw that not only was the handkerchief resting upon me, but so was Sherlock's hand. Pushing on his closest finger I attempted to move out from under it, but my motion only caused him to hold onto me more. "Sherlock," I complained quietly to myself, "must you always put me in these situations?"

Eventually, despite his involuntary actions working against me, I managed to free myself from the grip of his long fingers. I sat up higher on the pillow, catching my breath and looking down at Sherlock's hand, which was now curled around my blanket. With a sigh of resignation I stood up and scrambled my way off of the pillow towards Sherlock's side of the bed.

He had turned in his sleep and, lying on his side, his face was now turned in my direction. I sat on the bed, leaning on the pillow behind me, and settled in to wait until he woke up. I wasn't particularly hungry, so I saw no need to disturb his sleep. I found it interesting that his features seemed softened in sleep, not quite so angular or sharp. Even his lips held the smallest trace of a smile. Looking at him this way, it was rather hard to feel angry with him for the result of his innocent curiosity. After all, he hadn't meant to inconvenience me. It just sort of… happened.

After waiting for a while, I had begun to doze again. Suddenly, his entire form shifted, and with a content little humming noise he opened his eyes. Spotting me sitting there he smiled, and said, "Good morning, Watson. Sleep well?"

"I suppose," I replied lightly. He turned over, drawing back the hand that had lain on top of me. The handkerchief was still clutched in it, and he looked at it for a beat before discarding it on the night table. With a large yawn he sat up, creating quite a lot of motion on the bed and almost causing me to fall over. Swinging his legs over he got out of bed, and I scrambled to the edge of it in order to talk to him better. "Sherlock…" I said hesitantly, as he stretched his long arms into the air. "Are you sure I should come with you today?"

He looked at me in surprise. "Of course, Watson. I have already mentioned I may need you."

"Yes, but, don't you think it rather dangerous for someone of my… condition?" I shuddered to think of what trouble I could find myself in out there. I found quite enough trouble already when I was normal sized, and I couldn't bring myself to consider the dangers that awaited me now.

Sherlock chuckled, though I didn't see anything humorous in my concerns. "Really, Watson, you've never been one to balk from danger. And besides, I'll be with you. What could go wrong?"

"Quite a lot," I mumbled under my breath, too quietly for him to hear. However, the look he gave me suggested that he got the gist regardless. "Alright, alright," I said, putting my hands up, "I know when I've lost a battle." He put down his hand, palm up, next to me. Though it still felt strange, I climbed onto it and sat cross-legged without saying a word. Sherlock picked me up and walked out of the room, headed towards the kitchen. I held onto his index finger along the way; I had confidence that he wouldn't drop me, though that confidence would cease if his mind wandered too much or he began a mental debate with himself over some matter. Better to be safe than sorry, I figured.

After breakfast Sherlock announced, "Well, I'm going to wash up before we depart for Miss Struthers' residence. Would you like to do the same?"

I sighed, leaning back on the jam pot as I pondered his question. "Yes, that sounds wonderful, but I'm not entirely sure how it could be achieved. After all, the bath is a bit large for me at the moment." I wondered how long it would take me to stop adding words like 'current' or 'at the moment'. Would I, someday, get used to my situation. It seemed likely, though I surely hoped not; if I didn't drive Sherlock to find an antidote, who would?

Sherlock smiled at me and said, "Watson, such problems are miniscule, even for you!" I scowled at the not entirely subtle reference to my height; his teasing was hard to swallow when I had no chance of returning it. "We'll simply fill the sink for you," he continued. I had to admit, it sounded like a good idea, and soon Sherlock had spirited me off to the bathroom.

Plugging the drain he began filling the sink with hot water, the steam rising up from it sending shivers down my back. "Here's a towel for you," said Sherlock, setting a folded cotton handkerchief by the side of the basin, "and a fresh change of clothes. I'll come and get you in a quarter hour?"

"Yes, that should be plenty of time," I assured him, attempting a smile. He smiled innocently in return and stopped the rush of water, leaving me to myself and closing the bathroom door behind him.

Sighing with a mix of irritation and relief, I slipped out of my clothes and into the warm water. At my size, the sink seemed even larger than the bathtub used to: about the size of a small community pool, if I were to compare it. Needless to say the bath was relaxing, and I was able to forget some of my concerns for a short time. When I got out I dried off and put on one of the outfits Sherlock had purchased the previous day. To my surprise they fit rather well, and I was able to feel refreshed and normal for the first time since Sherlock started this experiment.

When Sherlock returned I was standing on the edge of the sink, attempting to comb my hair the right way with my fingers. "I gather that worked out suitably?" he said, picking me up with one hand.

"Yes, it was fine," I said, still looking down at the floor apprehensively. "As soon as my hair dries I'll be as good as new." We had been walking towards the living room, but when I said that he stopped.

"Here, I'll dry it for you," he said, blowing my hair out of my face with a gentle breath. Once my hair was drier he continued walking, as if nothing unusual had happened.

I blinked dumbly, trying to gauge how normal that action was given our abnormal circumstances. "Er, thanks," I said hesitantly, unsure of how to react. What was it about this man that kept me in a perpetual state of surprise? He set me down on the living room floor once we got there, leaving me to my thoughts so that he could go take a bath himself. I absentmindedly pulled at the fibers of the carpet, trying for the millionth time to wrap my head around things. The world just didn't work this way, as far as I knew, yet here I was standing no more than five inches tall on our living room floor. It seemed it would take me a while to get accustomed to life like this.

When Sherlock returned from washing up he picked me up off of the floor, and placed me in the breast pocket of his coat. "Why am I in here?" I asked, trying to find a foothold on the fabric. "Couldn't you just carry me?"

Sherlock smiled, opening the door to the hallway of out apartment building. "I could, though I didn't think you would want me to. After all, that would attract a rather lot of attention to you, wouldn't it?"

He was right, of course, and I didn't bother replying. As he locked the door behind us I sat down inside the pocket, making myself comfortable. Without warning Sherlock dropped the door key into my pocket, and I yelped as it nearly hit me in the head. He chuckled, filling me with vibrations from his chest. "Sorry Watson," he apologized. "Force of habit." I glared up in his direction and crossed my arms, still trying to keep my balance as he walked.

He strode out onto the street and hailed a taxi. The cart drove up and he opened the door and hopped in, giving the driver directions to Miss Struthers' residence. My interest piqued by the familiar motion and noise of the bustling streets, I poked my head out of his picket and tried unsuccessfully to look out the window. Soon enough, however, Sherlock pushed me back down with his finger.

"Be careful, Watson," he cautioned me with an amused whisper. "If you don't want to be seen, don't make yourself visible." I grumbled a bit, too quiet for him to hear, and sunk back into the pocket. I would have expected this state to be more exciting.

By the time we left the city and arrived at the edge, the buildings had become more scattered and distant, with the gaps filled by large yards and trees. The pocket had become comfortably warm, and it being a long drive I was on the verge of sleep yet again. Sherlock paid the driver and disembarked, looking at the house in silence. I chanced a peek; the house was rather large, with the appearance of a manor but not all of the size. Still, rather large for a single woman living alone.

I saw Miss Struthers come out and approach us, so I quickly ducked back down. "Mr. Holmes!" she said, her voice sounding relieved. "I'm so glad you could make it. Please, come in." Sherlock followed her into the house; instead of going through the front door we went in the side, and found ourselves in the kitchen.

"This is where I saw him," she said, sounding nervous. If I could chance a guess I would imagine she was ringing her hands. "I've put everything back in order again, but please feel free to look around. The entire house is open to your observation." She paused expectantly, and true to character Sherlock did not waste time in replying.

"Yes, I expect to find something of interest in this room," the detective said. "However, may I ask to be left alone for a while? I think better without distractions." Partially a lie, but I appreciated his thought.

"Of course," Miss Struthers immediately responded. "Please, just let me know if you need anything. I will be in the sitting room." After a few more pleasantries she left, and Sherlock and I were alone once again.

Before I could stand up myself Sherlock reached in and picked me up, my eyes blinking madly in the natural sunlight coming through the kitchen windows. "So, what are we looking for?" I asked, gazing around the quaint kitchen.

"What Mr. Thomas Jameson could not find," Sherlock replied, pacing around the edges of the room like a hound trying to find a scent.

I furrowed my brow in confusion, not following this particular thread of logic. "How do you know he didn't find it?" I asked.

Sherlock smiled and I sighed, readying myself to feel ridiculously stupid once again. "Watson, what is the probability that the thing you want to find is the last place you look?"

"Maybe one in an hundred?" I said, thinking through this and beginning to see what he was getting at.

"Exactly. Jameson left the place a mess, cupboard doors opened, things moved, thrown to the floor; and when Miss Struthers came down he had to flee. Obviously she caught him before he found whatever it was that he was looking for, as he was still tearing things up." That made sense, and I looked at the kitchen with new eyes, wondering what sort of things we might find in the room.

"Let's get started, shall we?" the detective said, and placing me on his shoulder he began opening the cupboard and pantry doors, looking for anything out of place. I held onto his collar as we moved, not seeing anything unusual in any door we opened. But something must have caught Sherlock's eye, as he paused and began removing items from one of the cupboards. "Aha!" he exclaimed, looking at the back of the cavity with delight.

"What is it?" I asked, straining my eyes to see inside the dim space. "It just looks like a cupboard to me."

"I'll show you presently, Watson, but I will need both hands," he said, and lifted his hand to his shoulder. Getting the idea I carefully sat down on his shoulder, clutching a few strands of hair for support. Sherlock reached towards the back of the cabinet, saying, "This particular cupboard ends further forward than the rest. I have a feeling that if we look to the edges…" His fingernails caught at one of the corners and he smiled triumphantly. "…we will find a secret door!" With some exertion he pulled out the back panel, revealing a small safe embedded in the wall behind it. There was a small keyhole at the right side, but other than that there were no openings to speak of.

"We don't have the key," I said in disappointment. "How shall we know what's inside?"

Sherlock chuckled, and replied, "Watson, did you not believe me when I said you would be helpful?" He plucked me off of his shoulder and set me down inside the cupboard. "Your hands are small enough to fit inside the keyhole, it should be an easy matter to unlock the latch." The detective smiled expectantly at me, and it was with wonder that I looked from my newly sized hands to the keyhole.

I sighed, but inwardly I was pleased to be of use. "All right, I suppose I could give it a try," I said. I walked over to the keyhole and peered inside. It was too dark to see much of anything, so I hesitantly reached a hand into the crevice. Feeling around, I found the latch and tried to turn it; this required the strength of both of my hands, but eventually I heard a satisfying 'click' and the hidden door sprung open in front of me.

"Brilliant, Watson!" Sherlock praised me, and reaching around me with a hand pulled open the door. Inside was a small leather-bound notebook, worn around the edges and yellowed with age. Other than that, the space was empty.

Sherlock took out the journal and, with his free hand, picked me up as well. Setting both on the kitchen table, he sat down and looked at the journal with a curious expression. "What do you think it is?" I asked him, running a hand over the rough leather exterior.

My roommate smiled, and replied, "What Thomas Jameson came so far to find."


	4. Chapter 4

With one hand Sherlock flipped open the journal, and with the other picked me up to move me out of the way. He propped my hand up at the elbows, giving me a virtual chair from which to look down at the book. Grabbing ahold of one of his fingers I moved backwards, trying to get myself situated in such an unusual position. Using his free hand the detective flattened the first page of the journal, revealing a mass of scribbling handwriting.

"It's written in a code," I observed, looking down at the book in interest. "Not any one I've ever seen though." The letters looked like a mix of Greek and Japanese, if that's possible to visualize, and were interspersed with sketches. Whatever the words said, the journal was full to the brim with them. I had started to ask Sherlock what his thoughts were when a voice called from the hallway.

"Mr. Holmes?" Miss Struthers asked. With a quick motion Sherlock flipped his hand around, making me lose my balance and fall into his loose fingers; from which point I was thrust in his pocket head-first, unharmed but rather disgruntled at the ignominious way in which I was moved from one place to another. Never walking on my own two feet, getting shoved in Sherlock's pocket every ten minutes… you would think I was no more than a plaything.

"Are you finding what you wanted to?" the young lady continued.

"Yes, indeed I am," Sherlock replied, as always calm and collected. "I discovered a hidden niche, in which w- I found this journal." He almost included me in his description, but caught himself in time. Miss Struthers didn't seem to notice, to my relief.

"A journal?" she asked curiously.

"It's written in a code. Would you mind terribly if I took it with me to decode it?" She wouldn't want it anyways; I don't know why he bothers asking.

"Of course! Please, take whatever you need." It was rather unexciting to listen to their conversation from my relative darkness. I was used to looking at body language to figure out people, even more so after meeting Sherlock. Not being able to see who was talking and what they were doing was rather boring.

After a bit more conversation Sherlock bid goodbye to Miss Struthers and hailed another cab. We stayed silent on the way back, though I would have liked to discuss the mystery at hand. Sooner than usual we stopped, and Sherlock disembarked, paying the cabman. He walked for a bit then stopped; to my surprise, he reached into my pocket and pulled me out.

"Hey!" I protested, trying unsuccessfully to cling to the fabric. "What's the idea?" I could hear the sounds of a London street; what could he be thinking, taking me out in public?

"Oh hush Watson, nobody's looking," Sherlock said, holding me in his palm. I scrambled to my knees and looked around. We were in a side alley, off of a main street. Fortunately he was right, and nobody was paying us even a sideways glance.

"What are we doing here?" I asked, confused as always by Sherlock's plans.

"I have to go run some…errands," Sherlock said, looking around. "Meanwhile, I want you to try and start decoding that journal."

"Shouldn't we be at home then?" I looked up at him skeptically. "I mean, it's not as if I can walk there myself."

"Not enough time, I'm afraid," he replied, making me worry how exactly he expected me to get back to Baker Street. My question was answered when he motioned to a street urchin on the corner, who nodded and started over. I moved backwards as he approached, unsure of what exactly was going on and nervous to expose myself to strangers. However, when he arrived I recognized the boy: he was one of Sherlock's, that group of ragtag kids he called the Baker Street Irregulars.

Despite having worked for Sherlock, the boy looked at me with wide eyes; I seemed to be something completely out of this child's realm of experience. Not surprising, considering. "Dr. Watson is having a bit of a difficulty today," Sherlock told the boy, to explain the obvious. "I need you to take him back to Baker Street, along with this journal." The detective handed him the journal first, which he stuck in his waistband, and then gently tilted me into his cupped hands. I gave Sherlock a pleading look, thinking that trusting such a child was a terribly dangerous idea given the current situation. He ignored me, and simply said, "Be gentle with him, Wiggins."

The child nodded, and with Sherlock's approval ran off. I clung desperately to his grimy fingers as he dodged through the crowds, nobody paying him any attention as he ducked and weaved through all sorts of people. It was so much more different than traveling in Sherlock's hands; there I felt safe, and he was never running full speed through the middle of London with me held in only a precariously loose grip. I had been through my fair share of life-threatening situations accompanying Sherlock on his escapades, but this was something else entirely. It was like willingly throwing oneself off a cliff, and trusting that there would be a safety net at the bottom.

Thankfully, within minutes we had arrived back at our Baker Street flat. With a hand Wiggins tried the door, but it was still locked; and Sherlock still had the key. "Here," I said with a sigh, sitting up and looking at the keyhole. "Hold me up to the doorknob." The boy did as I instructed, and rolling up my sleeves I stuck both my arms into the keyhole, feeling for the latch. It was stuck but with enough effort I turned it, the force tumbling me back into Wiggin's hand. Propping myself up I realized my hands were now covered in grease, so I tried to avoid touching anything.

"It's open!" Wiggins whispered in wonder, slowly opening the door and looking down at me in awe. "Blimey, if'n only I 'ad somethin' like you…"

"Don't get any ideas," I muttered, a bit worried at the type of gears turning in that boy's head. He dropped me on the table rather roughly, knocking the breath out of me for a bit, and dropped the journal with thud next to me. I lay there for a moment, gasping for breath and my whole body hurting from the jolt, before struggling to sit up. "Wiggins," I gasped, but the street urchin had already left, shutting the door behind him. "Dammit," I swore, laying down again and closing my eyes. I was going to be bruised all over from this, and at the moment I simply hoped nothing was broken. Sherlock was certainly going to hear about this when he returned.

Within ten minutes most of the pain had settled to a dull ache, and I was reasonably assured that I hadn't been seriously injured. Staggering to my feet I made my way to the middle of the table where we kept a stack of napkins handy. Grabbing one I rubbed vigorously at my arms, attempting to remove the disgusting grease that had gathered in the lock. Once I was reasonably clean I rolled my sleeves back down once more, and turned to the journal.

Luckily it was well worn, the spine being creased enough for it to lay open of its own accord. I did, however, have to grab hold of the thickly bound cover with both hands to flip it open. Sure enough, the entire thing was written in scrawling code, often blurred together as if written quickly. Looking around I spotted a bit of drawing charcoal at the end of the table, probably left over from one of Sherlock's experiments (a few weeks ago I had heard him mutter something about knowing how long charcoal would remain on skin post mortem. I didn't pay much attention at the time, but now it seemed fortuitous.) I broke off a piece and, despite the copious amounts of charcoal now covering my hands, decided to utilize it as a writing device.

"All right, let's get started," I murmured to myself, stepping up onto the top of the page. At the head of the first entry there was the number 23, three of the strange symbols, and the number 1882. A date then, and assuming that every symbol corresponded to an English letter, the month of May. After jotting the correct month above the series of symbols, I went through the rest of the page and filled in all the M's, A's, and Y's. From there I was able to find 'and's, and so on until I had almost every letter of the alphabet figured. It was only mildly challenging, definitely nothing Sherlock would have bothered with.

I worked my way through about ten pages before my eyes started to blur. The weather had become even more overcast, and the dim light that filtered through the kitchen window was no longer enough to see by properly. Sighing I put down my lump of charcoal, wiping my hands on the napkin before taking a seat in the middle of the table with a huff. It seemed only a few moments had passed before I heard the door open once again and Sherlock strode into the flat.

"Afternoon!" he greeted me with a charming grin, hanging up his coat on its familiar peg. "I do hope Wiggin's treated you alright?"

"Hardly," I replied curtly, standing up with a grimace. Sherlock seemed to ignore me, however, and instead took a seat at the table.

"I see you've made some progress," he said, picking up the journal and scanning my notes with those keen eyes of his. "Good, we've got the basis for the entire code now. Reading through the rest should be elementary."

"As long as you don't mind tedious work," I commented, rubbing my eyes with a sigh. "And even what we have thus far is difficult to make out."

Sherlock hummed a bit, reading through the first few pages. "Yes, very interesting indeed," he said, mostly to himself. "Listen to this part:

_15 June, 1882_

_Cloudless and hot, as usual. Today Thomas and I continued our search, yielding very little as usual. He gets more and more agitated the more we work, and I am beginning to fear that he has led me on one of his infamous wild goose chases. If nothing shows up at the next site, I may have no choice but to confront him. After all, both of us are here for nothing more than a profit, and if that isn't to be had I would be better off at home with my wife and daughter._"

I frowned thoughtfully, listening as the words were read in Sherlock's controlled tone. "Sounds intriguing, but what on earth does it mean?"

"I have a few notions," Sherlock replied plainly, scrutinizing the journal with his keen eyes. "I dare not suppose an answer until I know more, however. The information I found today was rather conflicting."

"Yes, where did you go today?" I asked. Sherlock disappearing for hours at a time to mysterious purposes was a regular occurrence, but now my interest in the case was piqued as much as his.

He waved my question away, eyes still focused on the journal entry. "I told you, Watson, I ran some errands." I grudgingly resigned myself to being held in the dark until he decided otherwise; as if he worked any other way!

Sherlock lapsed into a morose silence for the rest of the day, as he often did when really setting his mind to things. He pored over the journal, occasionally scribbling hurried notes in the margins. I paced about the table, unused to being left without anything to do. Usually when Sherlock would go about his business I would read the daily news, or medical journals, or even go out for a walk about London. Now, however, any and all of that was out of the question.

Eventually I tired of walking and took a seat. The evening wore on, and I began to slip into a doze. Absently I wondered how I could still be so tired; it seemed all I had been doing recently was sleeping. Still, the last vestiges of daylight had long since passed, and the lamps lent only a dull flickering glow. I had half a mind to try and figure out a way down from the table on my own, as there was no guarantee that if I asked Sherlock he would reply. Unfortunately, I had no other choice.

"Sherlock?" I asked, standing up with a sigh. To nobody's surprise he remained immersed in his study of the journal, as if he had never heard me. "Sherlock!" I said louder, walking over and tugging on the sleeve of his dress shirt.

At this he looked up, and seemed mildly surprised to see me standing there. "Oh, hello Watson. What are you still doing up?"

"Waiting for a ride," I replied dourly. He put me in this situation, the least he could do was keep in mind the difficulties it brought.

Comprehension lit up his eyes. "Oh, yes, of course," he said, flipping over the hand closest to me so that it was palm up. Surprisingly without batting an eye I stepped on, keeping my balance with only minor difficulty as he ferried me to his bedroom. "Good night, Watson," he said after depositing me on the pillow of the previous night. I could hardly return the sentiment before he had strode out of the room, leaving me quite literally in the dark.

"Yes, a good night for you," I muttered rather irritably to no one in particular. Throwing off my shoes and necktie I decided that was enough undressing, and lay back on the pillow with a sigh. I was rather hot and bothered, though I didn't quite understand why. After all, the circumstances that happened were not out of the ordinary; on the contrary, they were quite what I had learned to expect from my friend Holmes. Somehow, though, everything was different now. Perhaps I no longer felt useful or needed. I always felt at a disadvantage around Sherlock, but somehow my size had made it even worse. Not only did he beat me in intellect, but now in physicality as well. I could no longer compete.

It was with a heavy heart that I fell asleep that night.


End file.
